


How A Rainbow Falls (and Shines)

by Garnet_Sekai



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Autistic Frisk, Death, Families of Choice, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Misgendering, POV Second Person, Suicidal Thoughts, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-19 07:55:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9428402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garnet_Sekai/pseuds/Garnet_Sekai
Summary: A collection of short vignettes written as a follow-on and companion to A Rainbow Spun From Carmine and Lace, each one from the POV of a different character. If you haven't read that story, be aware there's an extent to which these may spoil some details and events, and they may make less sense in general without the context or without knowing (most of) the characters through whose eyes we'll be seeing.Since each fallen human has their own difficulties, I'm reserving the tags for things that multiple chapters have in common. Each chapter note will hold the content warnings specific to (or primarily for) that character.





	1. Cyan

**Author's Note:**

> CW for the cyan soul: misgendering (specifically as applies to gender presentation), abandonment, and general regret and self-blame.

The grass is soft against your bare feet when you finally emerge from the trees. It's a welcome reprieve, honestly; the dirt under the trees was just wet enough from last night's rain to smear and stick, and the forest floor seemed coated with a millenium's worth of dead, dry needles. They'd pricked your feet so much that you'd been forced to slide on your sandals just to keep going. This high, however, the mountain's trees give up. What's underfoot now is a soft, tough grass you believe is called heath, and you couldn't help but sigh in relief as you pulled off the restrictive footwear and sink your feet in with your toes splayed in bliss.

In truth, you still aren't sure why you came this far up. The practical part of you has urged you since your first step to return to the campsite. All you have to do is wait there. Isn't that what every child is told? "If we get separated, just stay where you are. We will come find you."

The sensible part of you knows this is nonsense. Packing a campsite is a lengthy affair; they were not chased off or suddenly called away. The fact that it happened when you were walking to the stream was not coincidence. There _is_ no campsite now, and waiting where it was before they packed up and fled the mountain will not bring them back.

Still. There was a town you passed through on your way here. It's a sleepy, isolated sort of town, and you're quite aware that a girl from another country entirely will likely be looked upon warily, but surely someone there would be willing to take you in for at least a short while. At the very least, this isn't the 1900s. Even in a place like this, most everyone will have a smartphone; you can contact an embassy and appeal for aid.

Then again, that may be a reason in and of itself. One good lie, if the tracks are covered well, and the embassy will decide to put you back with them. And you've known, from the moment you returned with the water and your catch, that you cannot. No matter how patient you are, they will never change. They will never accept you or understand you.

It's such a strange feeling. Normally it's your rare moments of impatience that lead you into misfortune; you've never honestly been the best judge of when the right moment is to stop waiting and act. This is perhaps the first time that it's even occurred to you that you might be _too_ patient.

You've been walking even as you consider all this, your impulse drawing you further up the slope. The skies are dulling to a soft, pretty twilight, even if the sunset is on the other side of the mountain from you, and behind you a few stars stand out over the little town. It really is beautiful up here. If they'd made camp here, you might have been tempted to wait for them after all. It would be tricky in the dim light, but the urge rises in you to sit and paint. It's a shame your parents found them again; those were quality acrylics you were given by Rose, but painting is too "female-normative" in their eyes. (You silently laud yourself for remembering in time that _she_ is not "Ray" anymore; on that one point you would never expect anyone to be patient the way you would in her situation.) You finger the weave of your sundress with a smile; another sign of your "complacent conformity to male-enforced gender roles", they call it. You just call it a sign of your cleverness in smuggling your dresses and skirts in your mother's luggage, and using them to replace the cargo shorts and tight polos in your own at just the right moment to ensure you would have nothing else to wear on the campsite.

That's one more thing you understand now that no amount of patience will change. They will never come around to understand that you are a girl not just in body but in outlook. Nor will they ever accept that these things are loved by you because of who _you_ are, not what society's bias demands you love. They've at least raised you to see the absurdity in males trying to dictate what females should and should not do; you don't think of Marcia as less of a girl than you just because she spends her time training to be promoted to the first string forward, and you certainly don't think of Rose as less of a girl than either of you. But you don't love dresses and tea and flower arrangement because some group of men you've never met decided that girls like such things. You like dresses because they fit and accent you, like your ribbon, and you like the things you enjoy because they are calm and relaxing and fill you with a pleasant feeling. And, you admit, deep down you do love your appearance and showing it off and being looked at by all who enjoy it as well. But they will never, ever understand that.

You do have people who _do_ understand, of course. Souwa in particular comes to mind; he often praises your grace when you take tea with him. He, you think, is fairly graceful himself; you sometimes even wonder if he might be more feminine than you, especially when on some days he meets you in a long skirt. It has certainly come in handy; when you explained the situation, he was more than happy to pass himself off as a girl to your parents. You strain their tempers enough by refusing to attend the club they chose and coming here to learn tea ceremony in its place; to know you were doing so with a boy would drive them into conniptions. Likely even more so if they knew about Souwa's brother, and that he's the one teaching you and Souwa both.

(Souwa, at least, you are more than willing to be patient with when it comes to names. He can't entirely help it, as he grew up speaking his family's language, and you will not complain no matter how often he calls you "Peroke" instead of the way your name is actually said.)

With your feet bare, you feel the root underfoot easily, and stop short to avoid tripping. The sight in front of you makes you stop, and also _really_ wish your parents hadn't dropped your acrylics in a box on Rose's stoop. You turn away from it after a moment to sit against the lone tree and gaze back down the slopes and over the village far, far below you.

In town, they'd been surprised when your parents told them about your plans. "If you're going to insist, stick to the foot of the mountain," an old woman had warned them. "The slopes proper are fraught with danger. Travelers who set foot on Mount Ebott do not return."

You glance over your shoulder at the great hole in the mountain. She'd never actually explained what, precisely, was the danger, not even when you gave her your best patient-yet-expectant pause and smile. Was this why?

Another impulse sees you on your feet and leaning out over the edge, holding on to a vine that dangles from the tree. You're a traveler. You've set foot on Ebott's slopes. And you're beginning to piece together an idea. It's probably wrong, absurd, and literally deadly. But the alternative is to die of exposure out here, or to return to the town and let the embassy listen to whatever lie your parents make up to absolve them of abandoning you.

You'll miss your friends, of course, Rose and Souwa and everyone else. But you've already waited far too long. Even for them, you can't keep being patient. Even if it's late, you need to act.

You lean out just a little further. The moonlight has turned the heath silver around you, but the hole itself yawns deep and black. You can't see anything.

Your hand lets go, slowly and deliberately. So be it. One last impulse, and then you can be patient forever.

 

(As it turns out, the true "one last impulse" won't come until just a little over a week later. The woman who finds you and starts to heal you is so kindly you lose out to your patient side for a time. It's only when you compare her to your birth mother later that you realize how different and wonderful Toriel is from her.)

(Your realization comes a bit too late to express it to her, but... you're certain Asgore will convey your dying words. He, unlike your birth father, you sense is someone that really can change, with patience and the right action at the right time.)

(Chara, too, seems such a troubled person. Still, you enjoy their company, and appreciate their willingness to talk about gender. You've never met a person who was neither before, and honestly you're fascinated, although not enough not to hold yourself back from pressing them. They share your fondness for Toriel, and far more deeply, and their disbelief at Asgore's actions is overwhelming. You wish you could have met them back when you both were alive.)

(There's a lot more you want to ask them, but you can see they don't trust so easily. Even the fact that they are so willing to speak seems desperate and lonely. You won't press them, and you certainly won't take advantage of that. But, in doing so, you wait too long one more time, and you are separated. Still, you don't regret waiting this time. You only hope you'll meet Chara again.)

(For now, you can only wait, and let your soul be kept by him. After all, there is no sense in acting rashly.)


	2. Green

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for the green soul: depiction of dysphoria and feelings of ostracizaton and detachment.

There's something peaceful about the way the old, dry pine crunches under your boots. One of life's many contradictions. You take a moment to lean on a tree and contemplate it. You are, after all, trampling on what was once part of a living tree - you, who once tried to relocate an entire ant nest the night before the exterminator arrived - and yet the sound of their crushing, their breaking and crumbling, puts you at ease.

Then again, for these needles to fall is part of nature. Crumbling them makes it easier for the needles to turn into topsoil. And in any case, you do not relish the fact that the needles are crumbling, only the sound they make when they do. You stand, and crunch your way gently along.

It's only as you're stepping out from under the trees that another possibility occurs to you: the fact that these needles are so dry and blanket the ground so thickly means that humans never come this way. There are no bootprints besides yours, no debris from campsites, certainly no ATV tracks. There aren't even trails.

This place is detached from humans. Just like you are.

It's not that you don't _like_ humans, or that you don't want to be nice to them; you're just as kind to humans as you are to bees and spiders and even cockroaches. (You're still so proud of figuring out how to make roach motels be nonlethal, without your father ever noticing. Roaches are _gross_ , you would never deny this truism, but, well. Just because you don't want to be around something doesn't mean it has no right to live.) But for years now the world has felt less and less _right_ to you. The divide between your father's expectations and your wishes has been around for as long as you've been old enough to object to him, but this goes beyond just a decorated soldier scoffing at his son becoming a camp cook for a foreign detachment.

Once again, you have to suppress the surge of _wrongness_ that you feel when you think of yourself as his son. He's strict, true, and he never encourages your hobbies unless they pertain to what he wants you to be, and he'll make you listen to his war stories no matter how they make you want to actually vomit, but surely things like that don't mean you can revoke his right to be called your father. You know you have it better than plenty of other children, and besides, just because you don't like him much doesn't mean it's right to stop being kind to him.

(And yet, here you are, weeks away from home, in another country entirely. You're being distinctly unkind to him, and to your mother, whose only crime is never taking your side when the other side is his.)

You shake your head. Your thoughts are wandering more than usual. Still, one thing you're sure of: you are not homesick, and you aren't the least bit lonely despite being here, on this mountain.

You try and focus on the grass under your boots. It's tough and springs right back up when you step off of it; you're privately glad for that. You think of your father's movies, muscled jungle fighters hacking haphazardly through the world with their machetes, and you snort in honest contempt.

Moments later, you find yourself incredibly glad you set out in the morning. In the shadow of the mountain or under the moonlight, you would've almost certainly missed the opening and fallen headlong into it.

"Look before you leap, Ypres," you murmur to yourself, and smile as much at the sound of your name as at the old adage. Your father can crow all he wants about the Golden Spurs and Passchendaele; the real legacy of the city of Ypres is battlefield transfusion and the Noel truce, and you're proud to share its name.

That smile fades as you look down into the opening at your feet. It's... a long way down. You cast your mind back to your father's words.

"The rest? Well, you're right that we couldn't finish them. Too many people saw the king lay down his trident and beg for peace. But they couldn't be allowed to live around people. Not once we knew their secret. One of the PMs came up with the idea of just... putting them in their own space. So we picked a big old mountain sitting on its own and chased them into the caves, then had the mages do their thing. Bam, no more monsters plotting to steal our souls. And that's why no human's ever going to see a monster again."

Herded into caves, like animals. You hated the idea before, but now... Divine above and below, he couldn't mean they were chased down into _this_ opening, could he? This isn't a cave mouth, it's a literal hole in the roof of a cave under you. There is no path down except to fall.

The image of a group of uniformed men, armed with bayonets, forcing monsters to jump into the cave below crosses your mind. You shudder. On your knees, you look down into the sunlit cave. All you can see is earth and a bed of flowers.

Monsters turn to dust when they die. It's one of the many reasons your father offers you why monsters are "freakish" when the subject comes up. There is no sign of dust down below. Maybe they came in a different way. But the flowers settle the issue; even from here you can see they've been tended to. Monsters are still alive down inside that cave, and spend time tending to flowers. (You think you recognize them, too; there was an enormous patch of the same sort back in the town. Golden flowers, they called them.) More importantly, monsters come here frequently.

You hesitate, at first. Even if that's true, they'd be well within their rights to be afraid, or even angry. Humans have hurt them. Military humans especially, and no matter what role you'd want to play on a battlefield, nobody could mistake your dress and bearing for anything but what you are: the son of a distinguished veteran.

(There it is again. Why does thinking of yourself as his son bother you so much? Thinking of him as your father doesn't feel wrong, just saddening.)

Thinking of your uniform, you find yourself drawing your fingers through your close-cropped hair. You've been doing that a lot lately. Long hair is unsightly on a boy; your father has driven that into you time and again, and you don't exactly disagree. But you imagine yourself with different hair sometimes anyway, and when you do, you wonder what, exactly, would be so wrong or unsightly about letting your hair grow out.

Come to think of it, he's the one who always cuts it. You went to a barber last time you were near one, but that was several days ago. And now that you've reached the destination you slowly realized you had been running to...

Because you are running away. And you never want to go back. That man wants to stamp the kindness out of your emerald-bright soul, and that woman has never once tried to stop him. Those around you, too, seem to cherish you so little. And while you value those who do, you never seem to connect. You are out of place, the man realizing that he is but a butterfly dreaming he is a man.

You've never been more sure of anything in your life. You do not belong with humans. And if that's the case...

Legs tense, you crouch and peer into the depths again. Deep, but probably survivable. You're willing to chance it. Monsters are supposed to be kind, like you, right? Isn't that why your father brings them up when he wants to make points about how worthless the way you see the world is?

In an instant, you spring forward, and let yourself fall towards the green and brown and gold below. Maybe, just maybe, you belong with them instead. And if that's the case, you'll bank on them forgiving you, and on their kindness, and give them all of yours in return.

 

(All of it, indeed. Even so, it isn't enough to convince the king. Maybe that's reasonable; the last time he called for the end of a war, it cost his people the right to ever see the sky. But the look in Asgore's eyes is so haunted that you can't help but be kind, even knowing what he will do.)

(You know how much it hurts to kill even once, though that is a secret you and Chara will take to your respective graves. You can't keep making Asgore kill you again and again, to feel that guilt and nausea over and over.)

(You wish you could do more for Chara, too, than just being company. They've helped you, and told you the stories they remember, and you've needed that ever since you left Toriel behind. This time, you wanted nothing less than to run away, but... you had to. For her.)

(And so, you give the girl at his side your canteen to stave off her heatstroke, beg him one last time on bended knee to stop a war you and he both know he could never want... and as your final kindness, make a gift of your soul to him.)

 


	3. Orange

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for the orange soul: light warnings for mention/discussion of family disorder.

It's beautiful under the trees at dawn. The whole world is filled with shadows and bright golden light, and you honestly wish whoever's up here would hurry up and show themself already, because this is the perfect lighting for a fight, or at least a big dramatic face-off.

But, they won't, and you sadly decide not to try another grand proclamation that you're here and you've come to challenge the villains lurking on the mountain. You spend most of the night thinking about it, and almost five minutes trying to recite it perfectly when you decided you'd climbed high enough to count as on the slopes instead of at the foot of Mount Ebott, and not even a single minion showed up.

Then again, you sort of know already it won't happen, even if the shadows are perfect. You even voice a quick "Gee, it's beautiful out today, I'm sure nobody will come out to attack me in such a nice place!" And then you mentally kick yourself, because of course now they'll know you know they're there and they won't actually go ahead with the ambush you're totally prepared to meet.

If they were planning one, anyway. But they're not, and you know they're not, and while you're a tiny bit let down, you let it go. Sure, it'd look cool, but there's nobody around to see it anyway, and while you're totally ready to punch any mooks that try to keep you from finding your way, it's not like you're _trying_ to find someone to punch.

Other than the villain on the mountain. Anyone who makes people vanish is clearly in need of punching.

Now seems like a good time for a flashback anyway, so you think back to the village. There's a bigger city on the other side of the mountain, but you and Grandpa both wanted to go to the little village instead. Grandpa really wants to share how much he loves stargazing with you, and honestly you wanted this vacation to be away from things. You like things simple, and... they haven't been. Not for a while. And you're not even sure how to feel about them, except for the obvious. You don't like being away from your dad, and you kinda think he needs help, but you love getting to explore Europe with your grandpa and listen to his stories about his prime hero-ing days, and you don't think you can give the kind of help your dad needs. You're... not really good at that kind of help, if you're right about what he needs. Mom was always better at that, but... she's a legend now.

And to tell the truth, even if you feel guilty about it, you're kind of glad to be away from him. He's... been scary lately. But he's the one who said to go with Grandpa, so you do that.

You do have to watch out for him a little. He wants to stay a hero as much as you want to become one, and sometimes he really overdoes it. But he usually listens if you tell him to rest. And he really does, sometimes; he's almost eighty, and apparently his hero job is pretty tough on your body.

The mountain caught your eye from a distance, but it really started growing on you as you got close to the town. You started asking around about how hard a climb it was the very next day, hoping the answer would be easy enough for Grandpa to climb it with you. It would've been great: a nice climb to get you tired out, a nice dinner on the summit, and hopefully he'd get to take lots of pictures he could send Grandma to paint. Even if they're not together anymore, Grandpa always keeps an eye out; he told you once he learned photography just so he could help her paint.

That's when you heard about it. You thought the locals would know plenty about how hard it'd be to climb, but most of them wouldn't say a thing. Until the girl who told you very firmly that no, it wasn't safe for your grandfather to go up there, or for you either. When you tried to argue, she turned right around and stomped off. You'd followed, straight to her grandma, and she immediately asked her to explain why nobody - not your grandpa, not you, not anyone - should climb Mount Ebott.

The story she told you was the kind most people would just laugh off. But she looked so serious when her grandma started talking, and her grandma has proof too! Sort of. It counts! And anyway, before she was done telling her story, you knew what you had to do.

Even so, you ended up having to wait a few days. You kind of wanted to bring Grandpa along and be heroes together, but you also wanted to try being a hero on your own, and besides what kind of lame Rider would bring his _grandpa_ along to a villain's lair? Even if he's a fellow hero who's saved lots of people in the past. But, eventually you do go on a walk with him near the foothills, and he takes one look at the peak and apologizes to you, because he definitely thinks he wouldn't manage a trip up there, even if he agrees it'd be a very nice day out together.

So, that settles it. The next morning, you grab your bandanna, slip on your tough gloves, and make off for the mountain before the sun even rises. And now, here you are on the mountain. And... nobody's here, besides you! It's a little surprising. Villains are supposed to be surrounded by countless minions to test your strength against, but this mountain is... empty.

(Well... it makes sense, to be honest. Unless this villain can literally make them out of thin air - and wouldn't that mean they'd have to be magic? - there's not really such a thing as minions. The kids you fought for what they said about your Mom had names, and faces. Faces that looked a lot worse after you were done hitting them. They were jerks, but... they weren't villains, or minions of some dark power out to sully your mom's heroic legacy. They were... just jerks. And really, 'they had it coming' doesn't even sound true to you anymore, let alone heroic.)

But, the moment you heard the story, you knew there must be a villain lurking up here. People don't just vanish into thin air! And making people vanish is plainly villainy! This time you won't have to apologize, you can just run in and finally be a hero the right way. Simple and plain heroism against a villain who's been left alone way too long.

(It's sort of weird nobody's done anything about this. They have to know there's a villain up here making people vanish, right? But that's a hero's job; maybe the village just didn't have one until you came?)

Even while you were thinking back, your feet carried you forward, and you're finally out of the trees. You push onwards. The sun turns the dew on the heather a bright orange gold, and you take heart. For a moment, you even let yourself daydream about coming down the mountain victorious, strolling back into the village with a white-haired girl at your side, returning after vanishing all those years ago. Her family would be gone, but... maybe the girl and her grandma will take Ypres in?

(Ypres is a really pretty name. You kind of wonder what it means, but end up remembering Mom telling you about yours instead. "We named you for the great river Rhine. But I changed it, just a little. You're important, and helpful, and protective, just like the river was even as far back as Rome. But you're also your own person. Rivers can only flow straight on the course the land forces on it. The Rhine can't choose where it goes. Rhein can.")

The daydream stops when you realize that there's a huge black circle in the grass in front of you. You creep to the edge, and find a hole in the ground. It's deep, and the sun's low enough that it's almost pitch black, except for a little bit far below where the dawn touches it. It's kind of like the opposite of Mufasa's kingdom, a little.

Well, in any case, this place just _screams_ "evil lair", and you nod. Down below, you see flowers, and your spirits lift just a little more. Down there is a villain you can defeat, and someone you can save. What other reason do you need? You don't hesitate; you never have. Charging forward, you take a big leap, down towards the place where you will confront a real villain and become a real hero.

 

(It's not that simple. You should've known it wouldn't be. Even Asgore isn't just an evil villain, despite what he's done. When you tried to fight him, it wasn't to defeat him.)

(There are villains in this story, but they're not here. Nobody made those kids disappear but themselves. They came here to _escape_ the villains in their lives. This is... a good place. Full of nice people. There's even a few heroes, like Toriel. Meeting her made you realize you're... kind of awful at being a hero. But you can't be a hero the way she is; all you can do is keep going.)

(Chara's demands are simple, at least. And it's simple to say no. You don't go back. You wouldn't do it exactly the same, but you'd still do what you did. You regret what you did, but going back would change that. If you kept going back... you'd stop regretting things. You'd get careless and hurt people and not even care. And anyway, you couldn't stay with Toriel and do nothing. If you don't help, she'll fall down someday, like Whimsy did. And you've already had one mom become a legend.)

(You're not surprised, though. To Chara... gosh, to them, _you're_ the villain, aren't you? They've been watching this whole time. You didn't want to kill anyone, but you did. Whatever your excuses, you made them watch you killing monsters, and now you realize _they're_ the one who wanted to go back every time you did.)

(You guess that makes Undyne the hero. She definitely seemed like one, both when you fought her and when she captured you. And when she killed you... she was just protecting Asgore.)

(You won't go back. You've always gone forward no matter what, and that won't change. Neither will what you've always wanted to be. Maybe letting Asgore have your soul really is the right thing to do, or maybe there'll be another chance somewhere down the line. You'll just have to keep going forward, and find out.)

 


	4. Purple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for the purple soul: brief POV depiction of sickness and dying, allusion to transphobia and misgendering, referenced (past) depression.

Your pack's getting heavy again, so you spread out one of your sweaters over the needles and lay down under one of the trees. Bringing along _everything_ you thought you might need admittedly comes at the cost of your exhaustion, but you're in no hurry anyway. The mountain is hardly going anywhere, and its secrets have been waiting for a very long time for someone to discover them.

Because there are definitely secrets up here, and if your net-trawling skills haven't failed you utterly, there are three kids who've learned firsthand over the years why travelers on Mount Ebott don't come back. Rhein's disappearance was the most prominent, naturally, but you've managed to turn up others. Rhein mentioned the story of Ypres to his grandfather (and his grandfather mentioned it in one interview), and you were able to dig up a news report about a Belgian runaway from the right time period. (The report claims the runaway to be a boy, but the name matches, and honestly you wouldn't put it past a man who'd take a Nisei girl as a trophy wife to screw up his own child's gender. Even your own lose track sometimes, and they actually try. You wonder a little if Ypres is like you, but... nah, that's a little too much of a stretch.) And then, far, far back, someone on a half-abandoned forum had posted a scan of an embassy copy of a missing persons report. A girl named Peloche, who was reported as having been lost during a camping trip in the area.

Really, there's likely at least a few more. You, yourself, are taking the minor risk of adding to the numbers, after all. But then again you've chased rumors on far less credible information. Ones that admittedly didn't pan out, but something feels... different about this one. There are more stories attached to Ebott than just a handful of wild theories about the disappearances of a few children. And if there's even a shred of truth to them, well...

This is beyond just a fun blog entry at this point. (Most of those wind up just a set of cool pics that you know someone is bound to "borrow" to make creepypasta or something, anyway. You've never actually found an earthbound spirit, although you could someday!) It's also a lot more unsafe. Even when you went into the old factory, you knew all the things to expect, and came up with a way to stay safe from each one.

You take stock. By now you feel rested enough, so you shoulder your pack and start walking. This high up, it's getting a little chilly; not bad enough to force you to back off, but maybe it would've been better after all to wait. "Just put your sweater on, Kythra!" doesn't really work when you're a boy, and when you woke up this morning that is definitely what you were. And even if it's hard for you to explain it, or explain why, you need to push yourself when you're a boy. You have to dress in a way that reminds you, and lets other people point out, that you really are a beautiful person who doesn't have to hide their appearance.

Still. This is different. The real reason your pack is so laden is that you have no idea what dangers there might be. And so you've brought flares to frighten off wild animals, and climbing gear to help you over rough spots, and a miner's helmet for when things get dark for any reason, and your trusty weighted structural testing staff, and plenty of jerky and water and granola... you even have your box, because this time you haven't the faintest clue how long this exploration is going to last.

(Speaking of which, you suddenly realize you've been kneading at your arms for at least two minutes, and you look down with a blink. When did you even get the lotion out? You shake your head and return it to its place, rubbing the last of it in as you walk.)

The trees give way to a sparse heath, and you stride slowly up the slope. No sense in tiring yourself out. This is an exploration with only a hazy goal and little knowledge of the area. There aren't even maps of the mountain thanks to the rumors and taboo. Google _should_ be a thing, but to the delight of con theorists, the entire region is blurred out. You have a vague guess about _that_ too, one that you'd like to think is far more plausible than the idea of a secret testing facility for the Aurora.

Then again, most of them would think your idea about as plausible as you think theirs. Most people in your circles scoff at the idea of anything like magic or monsters really existing. The few remaining records are dismissed as fakes (and to be fair, the officials denounce them as such) and anything else is pure anecdote. But when you trace the stories... they all seem to lead back here. To this mountain. To the place where, you suspect, the Barrier was erected.

Fantastical possibilities aside, the mountain is beautiful, and the day is clear, and somewhere on this mountain is the secret to the story that they tell in the village below. Sure, it might take some time, but you'll eventually find something, and you know how to pace yourself until you do. Even if you have to scour the mountain from foot to peak, and that wouldn't be all that bad an experience anyhow. It really is breathtaking up here. You'd stop and draw yourself as a park ranger, if you weren't comparing its merits to druidism.

(Actually, now you're more leaning towards the latter. And if there really are monsters up here, with their magic, druidism becomes a fair bit more likely. Humans can only learn magic through long study, but there are so few human mages left now that some people claim magic isn't real. Teachers are, therefore, understandably scarce. But monsters... from the stories you've seen, magic is as simple as breath to them.)

Either way, your next future self will have to wait. It's getting later in the afternoon, but the sun is still high enough to crest Ebott's peak and shine down on the heath... and the rather large opening in the ground ahead of you. That... demands your attention at the moment. Careful, thorough attention.

It's... well, a hole. Decently sized, apparently natural. The mountain must be riddled with caves. You tap firmly as you make your way along, but the rock is firm and unyielding. Safe to walk on, as long as you avoid the tree roots and vines from the plants growing all around the rim. You take care to stay aware of your feet at all times, so you don't trip. That would be embarrassing.

There's a lot of them, you realize, and an idea strikes you. Ebott is hardly a barren place, but this lushness is unusual. Could this be an effect of nearby magic? You've admittedly never considered that angle of study; if you really do find monsters, you should ask them about it. Besides, if this anomalous plant growth really is the result of magic, well... what magic would be out here on its lonesome, besides the Barrier? That, if nothing else, would clinch it.

Still musing on the possibility, you take hold of a tough vine and lean gradually out to look down into the hole. It's... deep. For a moment, you remember some of the more... pessimistic suggestions your followers made when you started blogging about Ebott. You know what they proposed is still something possible. But you have your own ideas, and you look deeply for a hint of who's right.

No sign of a body. Rhein vanished less than a decade ago; there would be at least some sign of him if he had just fallen to his death. What you see instead heartens you. Beautiful flowers carpet the floor in gold and green; you recognize them right away as the same flowers the townsfolk cultivate. And as you look, you can feel the grin spreading across your face, because the flowers _here_ are visibly cultivated too.

You quickly snap a few pictures. These flowers by all rights shouldn't even be up here; they don't grow on the slopes of Ebott itself, only at the feet (and even then almost solely in the village). And even if some chance event carried a seed or two down into the cave below you... the patch is neat and tended. There's nothing "wild" about these flowers. Everything is uniform, the edges smooth and not a sign of any dead or dying flowers. There's someone living down here, in this place. Considering the stories, it's unthinkable that it's a human. Monsters really do live in the caves under Mount Ebott.

Well. That, or maybe Ypres lived here for the rest of her life, and she's the one who tends these flowers. There are always other possibilities. But seeing this, in conjunction with everything else... each thing might be nebulous on its own, but after all nebulae are where stars are born. The shining star of your theory's vindication... your nebula might have finally grown enough to start shedding its light.

Even as you start securing the rope you brought ("Told you you'd want a bit of rope, Samwise, before all was through," you murmur playfully to yourself) you start considering how to frame the entry announcing your potential hiatus. And how to broach the subject with your parents, first and foremost. You could still be wrong, you concede to yourself as you fashion a simple harness around your waist and shoulders with the rope. Standing at the edge, you accept the possibility that there is some other explanation for a tended flower bed, or that the monsters living here simply don't want a human around. But you prepare your words anyhow.

There's a reason you brought your box along, after all. When you first began to think that Ebott might be the place where monsters live, you realized a commonality between the others. Rhein might have hoped to find Ypres, but his mother's death had been a scarring blow; Ypres herself was a runaway from a fantastically terrible father, and Peloche... well, you have your suspicions from that report. And while the idea of a "suicide mountain" isn't exactly unprecedented, there may be another reason those three never came back down.

And, well... you yourself aren't exactly happy. You're not _depressed_ , you trust enough in your own self-evaluation to know that. But the things that made you that way before haven't gone away. Your parents are kind people, and they love and protect you, but they've never been able to really empathize with you, try as they might. They accept and cherish, but do not understand. But monsters... maybe they do. Maybe monsters are the real reason that nobody ever returns.

Maybe those who come here... decide to stay.

And as you look down into the opening, you think you might want to spend time here too. Not live here for the rest of your life, like you think Peloche and Ypres might, but... it might be good to get some time to live among the more gentle race of the two that inhabit this planet. And if Rhein's still around, he'll probably be glad of the assistance in getting home.

You're stalling, you realize. Your hopes have never been higher, but you're acutely aware just how sharply they stand to be dashed if certain of your followers turn out to be vindicated in the end. But, there's only one way to find out. And if worst comes to worst, well. Your determination has saved you from worse scrapes in the past. With a light step, you hop into the opening in the cavern's roof and start to carefully lower yourself down on the rope.

 

(A dozen years, or maybe even a baker's dozen. You wanted to spend time with monsters, but this is a fair bit longer than you were planning. You don't regret it, mind. You just regret not having a chance to explain things to your parents first, and maybe put up a hiatus note on your blog. But the years you've spent with the monsters were wonderful, truly.)

(Mostly, you just regret that you're dying.)

("Your one regret... is that you have boneitis?" Chara half-heartedly suggests, and you laugh a little despite the ripping pain in your throat.)

(But in truth, your life has been a good one. You haven't managed to break the Barrier, but still. Others' lives are better for having had you in theirs, and you care dearly for each of them. Even Undyne can at least say you existing has given her plenty of workouts, and you actually admire her a fair bit. You just wish she'd stop stabbing you. Determination or not, it's still exceedingly painful.)

(The Barrier was admittedly something you didn't plan on properly. You never expected that it would trap not only monsters but also humans as well. But, at least you solved the mystery, even if you can't blog about it. Chara keeps making idle comparisons to studying singularities and crossing event horizons, but honestly you don't know nearly as much as they do about astronomy so it doesn't quite hold the same meaning to you.)

(Still, at least you can both agree that _Treasure Planet_ is an excellent movie. Laying in your bed, three of your closest friends beside you, watching that old gem... There are worse ways to die. And besides, it's not as if you'll vanish. Your soul will persevere, in Asgore's keeping. And one day, you know (even if she doesn't), Alphys will come into her own as Royal Scientist. And the two of you will work together again, with Peloche and Ypres and Rhein this time, and any other humans who come in the meantime. And you'll keep going and keep trying and keep striving until the Barrier finally lies in shards of magical rubble.)

(Laying there, you know it's time. But you're content. Alphys will be there to study, Gerson will be there to... be his wise old self, and Chara will be there, you know, to walk beside the next human as they've walked beside you all these years. You have just enough strength, so with your last breath you lift your voice just enough to be heard alongside Silver's.)

("Look at yeh. Glowin' like a solar fire. You're something special... yer gonna rattle the stars, ya are...")

 


	5. Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for the blue soul: allusions to racism, repetition/internalization of slurs and misgendering, reference to assault.

Your pack feels light on your shoulders as you make your way into the trees. Not only because your supplies are just about expended, leaving you with little more than your acoutrements. The first step you take under the branches, the first crunch of pine needles under your feet, means that you have arrived at long last.

Light as your pack feels, your legs also feel heavy, and you set it down so that you may lean on a tree and stretch them carefully. There is one advantage, at least, to Ebott being so far from your fair Paris, and that advantage is the awareness of your own body that the long weeks of travel have taught you. No dancer worth even the rind of a fig neglects their body, of course, but you are more in tune than ever with your most important of tools now that you've depended on it not just for expression but for survival.

Stretching only goes so far, though, and you consider for a long moment before sliding them out of your bag. Kicking off the snug sneakers that have worn down heavily from weeks of strenuous use, you lace your slippers on with ease. You could go without these slippers on your feet for a year and a day and never once forget the tightness of each and every lace.

At first, your teacher fastened on your slippers yourself, and insisted that you follow his example perfectly. It was only with time that you found the way that was right for you instead of for him, and more time before he understood. The way you lace your slippers is the only one that meshes perfectly with how your body moves and the places where your feet need support. He, thankfully, needed only his eyes' evidence to accept this.

You take a long moment to scan in all directions before moving to the upslope side of a tree and changing. You adjust your binder carefully as you don it; you've needed it less lately, and nobody is here to see in any case, but this, of all things, you cannot do without it. Your tutu goes over it, and after a moment to fondly finger the many patches and resown seams, you are ready.

You know without even considering what you wish to dance. In your mind, you can already see Siegfried drawing near, anguish across his face, disgust at being so taken in by Odile. The back of your mind is amused at the irony; in the full production it is your steps that enchant and doom him in a pas de deux that is honestly your favorite movement. And yet, a mere scene or two later, you are his partner once again. He has doomed you, yes; he is a damnable fool and you both know it. But still.

His steps are heavy, but yours are gentle and slow and light as you make your way to the shore before him, and your wings sweep softly and tenderly as they touch his cheeks and wick away his tears. His failings do not diminish what drew you to love him, nor do they change who you are. You already knew from when you first met that he is easily tricked, but you find his gentle naivete charming. And considering you've forgiven him once already for pointing a crossbow at your heart, it seems much easier to forgive a little slight like failing to break your curse. Your prince does not hold malice towards you. He does not call you things like "Moor" or " _sauvage_ ", or opine that "the Crusades must have missed this one" and offer to hire a ship for you back across the Mediterranean. Nor did he throw stones (save for the crossbow incident, he has never shown a hint of aggression towards you) or cheer at the sight of you reduced to a screaming lump in a burlap sack slung over that despicable sorceror's shoulder.

No, the real blame lies with the man you know is watching the scene unfold below. You can almost hear the gloating in his hooting from the far side of the lake. But you ignore it as you dance around Siegfried. The one who serves as the bearer of malice against you is von Rothbart, and you will not let him and his wiles defeat you. If you must live as a swan, then so be it. You will live as a swan and be happy. And you will make Siegfried understand that, so that he can be happy too.

You can almost hear the beating of mighty wings. A pirouette, once, twice, and then you suddenly sweep low in a move that made one of your classmates ask if you had ever considered ice dancing. Rothbart can see you trying to win happiness in despite of his curse, and it drives him to hooting madness. With a last tender motion, a promise to meet once more, you take to your own wings, a swan darting in desperate flight across the sky with the sorceror-owl in fierce pursuit, and vanish into the darkness.

Some might say you are projecting. If they actually knew the events of your life and understood you, they might be able to say that with some truth. But that is just as it should be. The steps penned by Reisinger are not exacting rules that allow for but one interpretation, one single rigid "truth". In this moment, you are a dancer, and you are a swan, and you are a princess suffering as no person should, and the life you have lived up until now is part of that swan, part of Odette. Her tale is a story to be told, and you are its teller, and the _pareils_ between you and Odette, between your life and hers, are part and parcel of the telling. That you depart from Tchiakovsky's original vision is not insult, but necessary, as such departures are for all true storytellers.

Of course... few that you have known wished to hear the stories you want to tell. You finger the silver medal in your bag as you retrieve it. There is so much more to dance than "pure" ballet. In Brazil, you've heard, they meld dance and martial arts into a display of skill and restraint and fluidity of motion. Ice rinks across the world are carved by the transcendent few who are capable of dancing across the frost and the air. And yet ballet and only ballet is what the world wants to demand of you, no matter how long you practice or how far your supposed "genius" carries you.

Well. When the world wants you to dance at all, that is. Or to continue displaying the audacity that is your continued existence. You feel certain that if you had remained in Paris much longer, or your journey here had been farther, you would have developed your very own capoiera out of raw necessity and experience.

Still. Those days are, hopefully, over. That's why you've come here, after all, crossing the continent in search of this rumored place. Fifteen years ago, before your first birthday, a child named Kythra disappeared on these very slopes. They had come to find out why at least three children had disappeared before them, but also in hopes of a far grander discovery. Kythra believed that monsters lived here, and that the children who vanished had chosen to live with them.

Frankly, the idea appeals to you as well. It's quite possible that Kythra, and maybe Rhein, were _trapped_ here, unable to return... but you don't care. To return means Paris. Paris is where you may only dance if you dance the steps demanded of you. Paris is the place where your own dance, your own movements and vision, are scorned as "jive dancing" and eagerly earn you deductions from sneering judges. (Although, admittedly they come also from judges bound by competition rules, whose reluctance you can see even as they hold up your score.) Paris is where your classmates go home every night to be taught by their parents that you are an enemy, you do not belong, you are a dusky blemish, as dark as your skin, on ballet itself. (Some of them even believe it.) Paris is where you exist solely to improve the station of two others, where you may not bear the name that means you but instead the name they forced on you. (Your teacher, at least, understands this; it has been months since the name "Martele" passed his lips.) Paris is where who you are means nothing before who you could be if you would just compromise and be a _good little girl_.

Paris is not home.

But here... here, there is a chance. Humans do not like who you are, and they will not stop trying to change you. Monsters, perhaps, will be different. They may understand. Your name is Pareil, because you are **not** _sans pareil._ You are alongside all, different and unique but neither inferior nor superior. You will make others happy through your own dance, not through adherence to rigid rules of absurd precision; there is a reason the sonnet is the lowest of literary styles. Among monsters, perhaps you can actually dance. Monsters will not tell you to be a good little girl; they may even accept that you are not a girl at all, or a boy for that matter, but you and you alone.

Your slipper-clad feet carry you easily up along the slopes, over crunching pine and across dew-laden whispering heather. And in the midst of the heather, you find yourself standing at the edge of a deep pit, looking down at the flower-carpeted earth below. A flower bed means people. Culture. But no human lives on or even visits Mount Ebott, save for those like yourself. The ground seems far below, but that will not stop you now that you're certain: monsters dwell here, hidden away from a conformist world.

You can hear the owl's wingbeats behind, drawing near as you peer over the edge. You step back, but only to give yourself space to drop into pointe. Defiant, you step, and pivot, and pirouette closer... and a single bounding leap takes you out into open space, downwards, your stance perfect even as you fall. Rothbart's wings beat above, and he lets out a screech of rage. But no matter what happens, whether monsters accept you or no, whether you survive this fall or no, you are forever beyond his reach. You are free forever to seek your home.

 

(You find what you seek. With someone as wonderful as Toriel, you could hardly fail to do so. In Home, which has become your home, you find so many who love your dance as it is, and the magic you learn allows you to make it even more your own, wholly and completely. But your new mother is just as much a prisoner of others as you were, and so you set out to put an end to the Rothbart that dwells in the home of monsters.)

(But Asgore is no Rothbart, in the end. He is a true king, and a better man than most of those you've met. When you and he come to blows, it is as your true selves both. Perhaps that is why you lose again and again until you have no strength left to try once more.)

(You wish you could do more for Toriel. She is a true mother to you. Even more so, you wish you could do more for Chara. They have lost sight not only of who they want to be, but who they are. They helped you remember, when you drowned in dust and self-righteous violence, yet try as you might you cannot manage to return the favor.)

(Against Rothbart, against those who see dusk in your skin and hate you, you would have no difficulty. But against Asgore, against the King of All Monsters, against a man who will do whatever he must if it means the lives of his people, you have no recourse. You can only offer up a few final, gentle words in entreaty to him, and as a farewell to your companion who has walked your dreams with you, before you surrender at last to a man with integrity as steel as your own, and tender up your soul in submission to the king.)

 


	6. Yellow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for the yellow soul: POV depiction of a panic attack, flashbacks, and cultural isolation.

When you set out, before first light, you're instantly glad you brought your boots. By the time you reach the mountain, the snow is deep enough to crunch softly under your feet, and the rest of the world has taken on that beautiful muted quality that is the surest tenet of winter. The sun still hasn't risen, but in the light of your lantern the snowflakes dance and swirl beautifully, and the white snow downslope stands out against the dark carpet of needles farther up.

The lantern is old, wrought iron and glass frosted with age and smoke. The men of your family have always been pack rats, but for you it's a little different. You take and keep from the family store of artifacts only what you can care for and use.

(Your brother suggested there was a reason for you being different from the other men of the family a few times. The last time he said it was the only time you'd ever seen your father take a swing at him, and you're still unconvinced that he meant to miss from the start. "Don't listen to him. There's a thousand ways to be a man," he'd told you. "You tell me you're a boy, then you're a boy, and my son. Not a single other thing to it.")

Admittedly, taking something so old on a trip like this is a risk you feel a bit ungrateful about taking. It's an important lantern for your family, and for you in particular. Decorating the bottom curve of the glass, in faded leaf that you've very carefully restored, are two totems. The young anishinaabe medicine-woman's, a golden bullhead, curls just below the line where the glass has stained yellow from years of oil. Above the line, a copper wolf stands guard, the totem she said would adopt her Irish pioneer husband, as the wolf had come to be partner to her people.

The lantern had already been old when it was a wedding gift between the two, from husband to wife. Clumsy though it was, the sight of her totem on the glass had made her smile, and when he came to the altar, she was holding it in her hands, his own totem added near hers. Or so the story goes, at least. You've used it ever since you heard that story and learned that you are, however sparsely, of First Nations blood.

Truth be told, that's part of the reason. This lantern represents a bond between peoples that normally would hesitate to mingle. What better to light your way while you seek a people who have been sundered from your own for centuries? And, besides, it's a reminder of your heritage, a heritage you cherish as much as your connection to the land of the sidhe.

Holding the lantern aloft, you step under the shelter of the trees, the crunch of pine needles still gently muted by the winter squall blowing. You're a bit glad of the little protection your shawl gives; you weren't expecting snow today of all days, and your formalwear isn't exactly the most protective against cold and wet. But you couldn't possibly arrive in anything else; first impressions are important, no matter how often people say that they shouldn't be, and in your line of work trebly so.

Ebott isn't the tallest of mountains, thankfully; it's growing lighter, but still well before dawn, by the time you reach the end of the trees. The snow is starting to pile up, the heather dyed white and barely visible now through the cover. It really is beautiful. And they've been denied this for too long.

Ebott really isn't the tallest of mountains. You shouldn't be breathing this hard from the climb. Or this fast.

You only manage a single step further, up under the trunk of the nearest tree, before the wave rises like nausea from the pit of your belly and leaves you unable to move. Your legs tremble, and you barely have time to set down your lantern before they give way and spill you into the (thankfully dry) needles. Even as you manage to pull yourself up and lean against the tree, your senses are already racing.

Far behind, a drift of snow grows heavy enough to tip its branch down and fall from the tree to the pine below. That is what your rational mind tells you. You freeze, regardless, at what is clearly a footstep, unable to turn and risk seeing _him_.

He cannot possibly be here. You know that, your rational mind screams it, as it does every time he appears in your attacks. He is sitting in prison, as he has been for nearly four years now. Besides, there is _nobody_ up here. Nobody ever comes up here, out of fear of the rumors, or perhaps of fear of the monsters.

(But that's exactly why he _would_ come, your mind whispers to you. It's the perfect place to catch you alone and afraid, to revenge himself for his jailing and the bullet you put in him.)

The cold alone didn't make your teeth chatter, but they're clattering now, and you tuck your tongue back to avoid biting down on it. You can feel your heart racing now, and every breath in turns into a labored sob. You hug your knees lightly and turn to your lantern. You remember, distantly, your father's voice. "Focus on just one thing, Sabail. Shut out everything else. Your thoughts, your fears, the world, they're not important. Just this one thing is."

At first, you intended to focus on the flame in the lantern. But between that flame and you lies another totem on the lantern glass, in far more recently brushed copper leaf. This totem is _gekek_ , the soaring hawk. Sharp-eyed, watchful, the hawk soars far on tireless wings, and its piercing cry carries on the winds to all who need to hear it. This is your totem.

You manage to focus on the hawk for a long moment. Then you remember. Your totem, perhaps, but you have only your own studies to base that on. You are an outsider, too unsteady and cowardly to seek acceptance by those you would call your tribe. Not after last time.

Besides. He's coming. You'll never have a second chance to be recognized as kin anyhow. Silent as the grave under the muting snowfall, because he knows what his attorney says is true; you are nothing but a frightened little girl making up stories to feel important.

You couldn't face him in court, in the light of day with an armed bailiff a stone's throw away from the witness box. Your father had to force himself out of his hospital bed to testify on your cowardly behalf. You couldn't face him in your own home, with a gun loaded and ready in your hands. It wasn't until your father's life was literally on the line that you fired, and even then you couldn't even consider killing him. Why would you think you can stop him now? Here, alone, in the flickering light of your lantern? Here, where you don't have your father to hide behind as you clutch your skirts?

It's too much. Too much. None of this is _real_ but that does not _matter_ and in a desperate movement you snatch the hat off of your head and jam your face into the bowl deeply enough for your sobbing breaths to echo right into your ears, and you crush your shoulders back against the tree and squeeze your eyes shut and wait like the coward you are...

When you can finally breathe again and slowly lift the hat from your eyes, the clouds to the east have lifted a little ways, and the sun has just crested the horizon. You are alone. You know that, but seeing that as dawn breaks is... reassuring. You breathe, slowly and deeply, letting yourself settle back to the center.

You lift your lantern carefully, when you feel stable enough to get up. There's a little oil, and you blow out the wick to conserve what you have left. Your totem shines in soft copper as you turn it in the sunlight, and you take some time to think. This totem featured large in your thoughts. It's hard to face them, but you've come to see the thoughts that prelude your attacks as hints to things that you're still struggling with.

Truth be told, you're proud of your chosen totem. Most of your family would be one of the totems of the _nooke_ tribe, the wolves and bears that safeguard and tend to the people. But you are not law enforcement, you are a diplomat, or desire to be. Your role is to see the world from afar, to understand the needs of all and make those of your people heard. You'd never claim crane; you're too far removed to be one of the original totems like the bullhead. Still, hawk suits you well.

But the fact is, you never managed to connect with your First Nations kin. And deep down you know the real reason for that is that you only tried once, as a young child with only an old lantern and a family story to prove yourself. The force of the rejection you received left you curled up on a bench and shaking from head to toe by the time your father found you, and that was before _he_ left his mark on your mind. You can't bring yourself to try again, even with a more proper case to make; with your awful luck, you'd end up once again hitting on the only person who'd deny you based on the rest of your ancestry. Still... it's a regret, to be sure. Maybe you should push yourself to try again.

That will have to wait, though. You have a diplomatic mission to carry out, your first.

You stand with a sigh and start packing the lantern away. Your luck really has been even more sour than usual lately. You don't have the worst luck in the world (you'd be dead at least a few times over if you did) but it's pretty dismal. Even when you carry...

As you think about it, you reach for it, and you find the little pocket inside of your shawl empty. Your eyes scan the ground quickly, frantically, but all you see is the orange and brown of fallen pine and white of drifted snow. You must have taken it out, maybe, during your attack, but then what? The wind, maybe? Morrigna's blood, you really are unlucky today. The snow, the sheer intensity of your attacks (when's the last time one of them got you to think of yourself as a _girl_? Was it just because you remembered your brother's taunting?), and now your "good luck charm" has vanished.

You realize that your off hand is resting against your holster, and has been this whole time. With a sigh, you draw out the other antique you brought along, and check the cylinder. Five slugs, empty round chambered. Good, you didn't actually fire. This revolver belonged to the son of the two whose totems adorn the lantern; despite being half-Native he'd become a widely respected sheriff, and this sidearm had been his weapon during his whole career. It's old enough that even with regular maintenance you need to follow antique loading protocol as a safeguard against misfire.

(You've had your license since you were of age; while you could easily get and handle a modern 9mm, you'll be damned if the tool you protect yourself with is anything less than a tried-and-true lawman's sidearm.)

Everything is away in short order, and you start upwards. The clouds are still dark overhead, and the snow still falls in a light flurry. With dawn lighting up the flakes as they fall, it's even more beautiful. It makes you think back to the reason you're here. With your family's connections, you know about things that most people assume are rumors or conspiracy. Among those things are the existence of monsters, and five missing persons cases that all center here, on the mountain that this country's PM volunteered to be their prison.

Still, the more you learn about monsters, the less you trust the "insider's" official line. It would have been suicidal for the monsters to instigate a war. The sheer difference in the casualties proves that. The Barrier and the war that came before were sparked by human fear, though fear of _what_ you have no clue. But that doesn't matter. What matters is putting this right. And that is why you are here.

Further up the slope, you come across a gaping hole in the ground. When you reach the edge, you find that it's not a hole exactly, but an opening in the ceiling of a cave. Down below you can see beautiful golden flowers, and you think back to the story you heard from one aged great-grandmother. Could the monster who escaped the Barrier have brought these back? Were the flowers their goal all along?

You dig in your pack; thankfully, you thought to bring rope along on this trip. One small dollop of luck, you suppose, even as you tie the rope carefully around an old sturdy tree. You allow yourself some time to enjoy the snow, knowing you might not get to see it again for a while. As long as you're underground, you'll be bound by everything the monsters are; everything they're denied, you'll make sure to deny yourself as well. Not that you need the help to empathize with them, mind, it's just that it's only fair.

With the rope secured around your waist and your pack secure on your back, you set your feet against the edge and lean out over the cavern below. Truth be told, you're a little uneasy. There's plenty that can go wrong, first and foremost starting with the chance that monsters will bear an entirely justified hatred for humanity and won't give you the opportunity to found a bridge. Still, nobody else seems to be jumping at the chance (most of them scoffed at your proposal, but then most of them insist on calling you a _girl_ so they can go boil cabbage for all you care), so it's on you to be responsible.

A little hint of green catches your eye just as you're about to let yourself fall, and you hesitantly pluck your clover from the snow. As you tuck it into its pocket in your shawl and start to rappel down the wall, you feel just a little less nervous. Maybe your luck's about to turn after all.

 

(Looking back, you realize that you're not as unlucky as you always claim to be. Sure, your rope snapped at just the right moment for you to land beside the flowers, breaking your arm _and_ your lantern in the process. But you managed to keep on until you met Toriel, who set the break and fixed the glass without "fixing" the rest of what age had done to it. And when one of the first things she said was to ask you what your pronouns are, you knew you'd been right to trust what you thought monsters to be.)

(Besides, you being trapped underground with the rest wasn't bad luck, it was failing to understand the Barrier.)

(Toriel really is someone amazing, and you're still convinced that she's the Underground's conspicuously absent Queen. Or was. If not, she damned well should be ruling this place. You've learned more from her than you could have ever dreamed possible, and even if the camelia on your bow has been replaced, your gratitude to her hasn't faded an ounce. But if you're going to value her like a second mother, you'll not shirk your duties as her son.)

(And while you and Chara certainly didn't always see eye to eye, they're the one who saved you from ending your career in a heap of blood and dust with your only legacy as a killer. You're going to miss your debates. You've hurt each other, true, but you'll part as friends nonetheless.)

(Even Undyne. You're worried still about her; she's as driven as you are, and the fact that the next child will bear with them the seventh and final soul that Asgore needs to break the Barrier will make her all the more set. The old you would have killed her. The old you would have been convinced that _not_ killing her would have been the wrong path, because it would mean letting her remain a murderous threat to whatever poor child throws themself on Ebott's mercy next.)

(But maybe that's better than being a murderous threat yourself. If nothing else, Chara has made you realize that the lives you took before they made you reset were not just. You're starting to understand why your father always praised how you handled yourself the day _he_ invaded your home.)

(Still. Even if your death is at her hands, you do respect Undyne. You're lucky, in a strange way, to have met her.)

(You want to meet Asgore, still, but perhaps it's best that you'll never get the chance to. If things were different, he sounds like someone you'd be deeply fond of, but as things stand... well. Maybe it's lucky for him that Undyne got to you first. And lucky for you that you won't end up responsible for his death.)

(Your luck is odd like that. You've had plenty of downturns, but there's always people around to keep your spirits high. And you've never shone brighter than when you rose to save both Toriel and yourself; you don't need Chara to tell you that. You've done a fine job, in the end, regrets and all. Your luck's like that: not especially great, but enough to get by.)

(And that "enough" is what you wish Chara in turn, as you and they part ways.)

 


	7. Sunrise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for the red soul: abandonment, internalization and self-blame, persecution on multiple fronts, intrusive thoughts, self-harming behavor, and reference to neglect.

When you wake up, you have to squeeze your eyes shut again almost immediately. The very first thing you see is the sun. It's high up above you, and shines right into your eyes. You roll over and try again.

The second try is better. The sun's not blinding you anymore, and you see the ashes of the bonfire instead. You sit up, and that's when you notice the first thing wrong: your blanket's gone. Your fingers grab the hem of your sweater to play with, but it's not the same feeling and you can't wrap a sweater around you like your blanket. You're not cold, exactly, even if it's early enough in spring to still be chilly most days. It's just...

Something feels really wrong. It has since you opened your eyes. You're not sure what, but you'd really like something to put nice and tight around you. (What you really want is one of Shelta's hugs. If he were here, he'd see what's wrong and be holding you already. But... he's not.)

Actually... a lot more than just Shelta isn't here. When you look around... nobody is. You're alone. And, you realize all of a sudden, it's already afternoon. It doesn't make sense. Why did you sleep so long? Where did everyone go? How did they take your blanket when you always cling and roll yourself up in it when you sleep? You're... not really that deep of a sleeper, and you always wake up if you don't feel comfy.

(There's an obvious thought. You push it away.)

When you get to your feet, you realize that all your things are gone too. You've only got what you're wearing and what was in your pockets. A pair of leggings and the shorts that go with them, your old too-tight boots, and of course your sweater. When you feel in your pockets, all you find is your bandage.

You're used to being hungry, and everyone had plenty last night, but that still scares you. You could've sworn you snuck a few pieces of the really good stuff into your pocket to nibble on the road, but there's nothing there.

The fire is definitely out; you touch the ashes briefly, but they're cold. They're clingy and feel an awful sort of powdery, and you hurriedly try to rub them away in the grass. You can't just sit here, though. You don't belong here.

Then again, where _do_ you belong? Not in the village. The gadje there are meaner than usual, and the one nice lady who told you stories might get in trouble if she let you stay and fed you. And, well... an entire caravan can't really vanish without you on accident. You can't pretend; what's happened means that you don't belong with your people either. So... where?

Pine needles don't _crinkle_ in that perfect way that leaves do, but they're a nice sound too. You scamper quickly up the slope the rest of the way until you can get under the trees and stomp-crunch-stomp your way around in the deep dry needles for a while.

They really aren't anywhere near as good as leaves, but you feel a little better. You think about the stories again. The old lady was pretty much the only nice gadje you and the others met in town. She had a lot of stories, especially about the mountain. Anyone who goes up the mountain disappears, she told you. She even told you she'd seen it herself when she was a little girl, and a strange boy had come to town asking about Mt. Ebott. He'd gone up the mountain before the sun came up, and he never came back down.

The slope isn't too bad. You could probably get up there easily. And, after all... isn't that where you should go? They left you here; isn't that their way of saying so? While you think about that, you turn and start up under the trees, listening to the crunch of the needles.

It's not enough to distract you. You think about it, again and again. They left without you. They took all your things, even your blanket, but they didn't take you. There's no way to be charitable about that; they've finally decided that enough is enough. You've been causing trouble and hurting the rest of the caravan for too long. So... they left you behind. Here, on the mountain where (or so the gadje say) people disappear.

You should have expected it. You've spent years now violating everyone's safe space and trying to make friends with people that everyone thinks wants them dead or at least gone (and most of whom genuinely do). You're just a strange, unclean child who plays with cats and frogs and washes their skirts with other clothes and won't talk right to anyone and barely even _act_ like you're one of them instead of a gadje sneaking in; it's no wonder you've been left behind here to disappear, you've only ever taken and never given back or compromised or just been _good_. You are not good, you know that. But you'd hoped you weren't such a terrible child that your parents didn't want to take care of you anymore.

But, really, why would they? Even your friends, you bet, don't care that you were left behind; Shelta was the glue that held the group together. They were _his_ friends, not yours, and they let you come because even after they started learning signing from him, you were his "interpreter" and he wanted you around. Now that he's gone, you don't have a reason to be there.

You tuck the soft inner part of your lip in and clamp down until your teeth almost meet, no, that's _wrong_ , they aren't _like_ that! Your thoughts barely slow down, though, so next you roll up your sleeve and slam the side of your arm as hard as you can against a tree. A bolt of pain pulses through your arm, and you focus on that. You press the hurt place hard against the bark and shift it up and down a few times. One of your eyes starts to feel wet, but you wipe it roughly on your sleeve and hold it back. You'll only feel worse if you start letting yourself be selfish on top of everything.

Slowly, your thoughts start to clear, and you take a slow, long breath, feeling your lungs stretch and press your chest out against the softness of your sweater. Your arm burns like you're holding it to a black jeep in July, and you focus on that.

(That's another reason, of course. What kind of good, sane kid needs to do things like this? What parent should have to put up with a child who does that to themself?)

You bite on your lip again and push that thought away. Facing back towards where the bonfire was, you trace a circle over your heart with your free fist. You're disgusted that you thought that way about your and Shelta's friends. They're so nice to you, when you don't deserve it or belong there. They don't even blame you for what happened to him, like his parents did, even though it was your idea for you two to sneak out alone. They're wonderful people and they don't deserve you thinking such nasty things about them. You must be feeling worse than you thought.

You _think_ you're coming out of it now, though. Enough to stop rubbing your arm on the tree and look at it. You're not bleeding much, but it's pretty gross. The tree's got lots of moss and the bark is kinda crumbly. Most of it you can brush off, but some got sort of ground into you, and the wet bark is kinda hard to see against your olive skin anyway.

Water. You want water to clean it off, you know too well what happens when you don't clean yourself up, and suddenly you realize you don't have any to drink either. You understand them taking the food, honestly you do, but not even leaving a bottle for water strikes you as a little mean. But you remember a little stream the caravan had to cross over, and when you look that way, you can just barely hear water running. You stomp through the pine needles towards it, and then upstream to a little pool.

It's icy cold, and you're shivering by the time you get your arm clean, but you use your sweater and get it as dry as you can. The old bandage is still a little sticky and gooey (you give yourself the shudders when you end up smushing your fingers into the strip and it _clings_ to you) but it's your only one and you don't want to take chances that the water will wreck it. You finally pull your sleeve back down with a sigh and start slowly up the mountain again.

You're thinking a little more clearly now, but you don't want to go back down yet. Even if it's just once, you don't want the gadje in the village to throw stones at the old woman too for giving you food and water, and anyway you don't want to make her have to deal with your picky-ness. Besides, you had a thought.

You've seen plenty of gadje street magicians, especially in the eastern parts of Europe, but stage magic has always caught your eye even more. Shelta even found some stories with stage magicians who were secretly _real_ magicians using their acts to hide, or using magic to make their acts even more amazing. (He was always good at that. You still remember him digging up Asushunamir's story to help you feel better about your gender, back when everyone else was pushing you to "pick one".) But thinking of the old lady made you remember her stories about monsters, and magic, and thinking about magic made you think of one thing in particular.

When a magician makes someone disappear, it isn't for good. They always come back, sooner or later. (Usually sooner, though you remember one show you saw where the magician made the assistant vanish at the start and only brought her back in the middle of the finale.) So if this mountain also makes people disappear...

Your boots make a different sound against the grass, and you smile and stop for a moment to kick your boot back and forth and listen. When you open your eyes, if you squint way, way out to the distance, you see what might be the caravan. You're not sure what else it could be. It's already far off, but even if you could catch it, it doesn't matter. You don't belong there, or anywhere you've lived before. The fact that you're here is your parents telling you that.

Even so. You do belong _somewhere_ , right? It's just that you haven't found it yet. And that's why you're really climbing this mountain. Because this mountain makes people disappear. And that means that they have to reappear somewhere.

You do wonder _why_ people vanish up here. There's plenty of reasons it could be, of course. Maybe a genie lives up here, waiting for people to find it and grant their wishes. Maybe there are fairies; Shelta always liked that poem, even if you think the world isn't _that_ full of weeping. Or maybe the mountain itself is magic. Or maybe there's a secret place you can only get to from here, where there are people who will take care of even someone like you.

The sun's starting to get close to the trees, though. Whatever magic is up here, you should find it fast. You don't have a blanket to sleep under tonight, and your sweater's still wet from the stream. The trees have pretty much stopped behind you, so the rest of the way to the top is pretty much all tough grassy meadow, but you keep heading up. Anything magic is going to be hiding near the top, right?

It takes a while for you to find anything. You're actually heading back _down_ towards the trees in case the clouds mean it's going to start raining when you find... well, a hole. A big one, and it leads down into a cave. The sun's on the other side of the mountain now, and you can't really see much. Still, somehow you know this is the place.

You're going to disappear. That's what should happen, anyway, and it's why they left you behind _here_ , you think. Anyway, it's hardly fair if only you get to come here and _not_ vanish, when that boy and plenty of others all did.

You sit carefully on the edge, letting your feet dangle, and enjoy a little the feeling of your boot heels tapping against the hard dirt in rhythm. The urge to _move_ fills you, and when you feel the first cold plash against your forehead, you slide back up and leap into a dance you know by heart, from before you lost the privilege of learning. A dance of thanks, for the rain most of all, but maybe for other things too. You don't know if you're allowed to dance this way anymore. Not after being left behind. But you are, or thought you were, a Romani. Even if this is the last time, you're going to dance.

(Even if you really aren't Roma, you want to stay a dancer. You remember dancing for Shelta, and his eyes watching you. The last time he got to see you, he'd told you something. ~Even your dances are full of joy.~ His movements were even warmer than usual when he signed that, and even warmer when he made your name sign a moment later. ~It's no wonder that you chose a name like Frisk.~)

When the rain starts in earnest, though, you turn back to the hole. Your sweater's already starting to soak through a little; it's old, and soaks up water easily. You sit on the edge again so you can listen to and feel how the sound changes when you tap your heels. Another thought comes to mind, but you don't even need to use your nails to push it away. Either it's wrong, or it won't matter anymore in a minute. And if it really is right, that just means where you belong is "nowhere". But you do belong "somewhere", so you lean forward and let yourself tumble into the dark.

You're going to disappear. You can't wait to see where you'll reappear.

 


	8. Sunset

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for the first fallen human: abandonment, referenced abuse, internalized dehumanization and self-loathing, POV depiction of serious bodily harm.

The moon vanishes behind Mt. Ebott at last, and with a sigh you slide out of your sleeping bag. Finally. You had been able to sleep through most of the day and almost to midnight, but the moon is only just past full now. It shines far too brightly against what you truly wish to see while you travel to where you will perish. Only now, hours later, that the slow turn of the world has hidden the sun's mirror behind the bulk of the mountain can you continue in peace.

You close your eyes for a long moment to allow them to adjust. When you open them, the endless gulf of the stars yawns as far as your eyes can see. If there is any consolation in your being left here, it was your removal from the city. You could never see the sky like this when you were with them.

... That is perhaps not entirely accurate. When you strain, you can recall glimpses. Drives in the country, nights almost as dark as this. Long hours staring up into the dark without a single light around you, not caring what they might say should you sleep past noon the next day. Whether you were born to love starlight, or learned it from those nights long ago, you neither can say nor care.

But, such days are long past now. They belong to the time before _they_ showed their true colors, before they began to engrave far more indelible memories in you.

It is not easy to tear your eyes from the skies even for a short while, but you turn to look at your sleeping bag. You have possessed it for almost two years now, and you find yourself struck by the instinct to shake off the snow that fell over it and you while you slept, which would allow its dark color to stand out against the white and for it to be easily found by someone who will use it. But... after two years of use since you stole it, you suppose there has been enough wear. It can sleep here, like you.

That leaves you with nothing but the flashlight you stole this morning and the clothes on your back. You have left what few things you still kept behind. Your phone lies tucked in the mailbox of the family who never bothered to disable the free line their plan gave them, and your last few "borrowed" books have been slid into the return slot. Even your textbook was left on the library stoop, the book of astronomy that you were carrying the day you were... deposited.

(You have your partner as well, of course. That, you will take to the grave.)

Well. You hardly will need anything, soon enough. The flashlight clicks on, its cheap bulb managing a pleasant red light through the colored film you tied over its top. Mount Ebott lies before you, the mountain where humans who dare the slopes disappear without fail, the mountain where you have been ordered to go time and again for nearly two years now. As you step forward, reddish light showing your path and twinkling starlight above you, you will at last heed that order.

Not because it is an order, mind. You have no desire to give them the satisfaction of believing that you are climbing this mountain because they told you to go vanish here. However, you are tired. Tired of living in a place where you are not wanted, by anyone, and in a place where you were brought because you were not wanted where you lived before. You are tired of rooftops and jeers and stones and hunger, and most of all you are tired of being _you_.

The trees up ahead are thick enough to keep the ground mostly clear of snow, but you catch glimpses of the brighter stars now and then. Sirius in particular you spare some of your focus for. (How wonderful that the brightest star in the sky be a dog. Or dogs, you correct yourself; Sirius is a binary system after all.) It seems strangely colder beneath the boughs, however, and so you press on. Besides, you already _pine_ for the open sky.

You are not the most athletic of people, of course. These trees form a wide belt around the middle third of the eastern slopes, and so press as you may, you find yourself with quite a long walk ahead, and quite some time to be alone with your thoughts. Even the skies hide from you from time to time.

You think, for a time, of your various selections. Over the past months, the great tragedies and adventures and mysteries have paraded for you. You have seen horror; you have looked the abyss in the eye and returned your most placid, perfect smile. More than anything else, you have steeped yourself in the myths of the lands. (Those of most ancient Babylon, in particular, fascinate you. Ishtar's starlit savior, the child who you are like unto, neither man nor woman but _them_ , remains of course your favorite, and you wonder at the idea that there were once humans who not only tolerated but adored those like them.)

There was a time you empathized with, or more accurately projected on, many of the stories that you took in. You fancied yourself a protagonist, a noble figure standing resplendent despite a downpour of wrongs, or perhaps destined to perish a starving match child, taking solace only in that your misery has created a beautiful story for others (if such could bring one such as you solace). On occasion, you imagined that you might one day discover yourself of noble blood, and journey to regain your rightful power and place, and bring retribution and ruin upon your tormentors. Later on, you began to envision yourself a tragic villain, an Oersted broken by hatred and betrayal. As a villain, as Odio, you would lay waste to those who had in their cruelty and callous lack of thought done you harm, a villain because the world decided it would be so.

You are older now. Those around you would hardly call you an adult, or mature, or even a teenager. Even so, you are old enough now to understand one truth. You are no protagonist, tragic or otherwise. You are not even a sympathetic villain. There is nothing noble or royal about you, nor are you a person of import in the life of anyone. You are unwanted, spiteful, despised, and bring harm into the lives of those around you.

In the end, you are simply... you. And that is an existence you can no longer abide.

Enough. You pull yourself away from this line of thought and stare upwards at the sky. The stars shine bright and beautiful still. Through the trees you find the belt of the Hunter, and marvel at the strange contradiction inherent. On his belt hangs a stellar nursery, Orion's Nebula (you casually discard the cold appellation "M42"), wherein some of the stars that have been born are so young that their light has not yet reached Earth. On his shoulder stands Betelgeuse, a brilliant red to match your eyes, a star so distant that it might already be dead, and yet none would know it had perished for half a millennium and more.

A place of birth, and a place of death, in a space so distant that, even with light as their messenger, centuries must pass before any on Earth know of the events that have taken place. The sky truly is wondrous. Thankfully, there is more than enough wonder, in the Hunter and across the other patches you can see through the canopy of pine above you, to keep you distracted from your thoughts.

Besides, at this point there is little merit in considering these things any longer.

The stars are different when you emerge at last from the forest. While the corpse wandered through the copse, the Earth has continued its impassive rotation, and the skies above whirl in response. Far to the east, you can see pale light starting to shroud the horizon. Dawn must be approaching; a balm for your chilled body, but the bane of the reason you camped until nightfall on the knees of Ebott.

You turn and walk, taking in the stars above. When the sun rises, you will have seen them for the last time. You know true north, and Polaris, without even needing to refer to the aged signpost writ by the elder bear; from Polaris, the two bears easily come into view. Within the larger lies the asterism so many people think is a constellation in its own right, but you know Ursa Major to be far more than simply the eight stars that make up the Great Wain. (Eight, not seven, discounting binaries of course.) Along the curve of the handle you sight carefully, following an arc across the sky to proud, bright Arcturus. There stands the Herder, the white, orange, and blue of tripartite Izar adorning his girdle. And to the west, accompanying their master always...

There they are, just barely cresting the mountain now. Canes Venatices, the Herder's loyal hounds. The brighter of the two shines easily in your eyes. Cor Caroli, the marker of the southern dog. And just a little further to the north and west lies a fainter star. Even after hours of walking in the dark and waiting for the moon to hide, it takes a moment before you see it at last.

But, there it is. The other half of the hunting dog, Cor Caroli's dimmer companion. Once again, you marvel at just how deep the night grows out in this place. You could never find this star where you lived before - and you most certainly tried, no matter how often it meant facing the consequences of being caught out of bed and scouring the skies from the roof. But in this place you have seen it time and again. This is the dimmer of the two stars that trace out one of the Herder's dogs, a star given a name that means "joy" in your language.

Chara, the star whose name you dared to take for your own, shines gently just above the peak of Mount Ebott.

Your star is not particularly bright. Few people on Earth are likely to see it these days, with so much light pollution sanitizing the skies. Still, that aspect suits you just fine. You walk, letting your eyes remain on your star, for quite some time. In your periphery, you see what must be the end of your travel on these slopes where all travelers disappear. And yet, you halt at the edge, eyes still fixed skyward.

Oddly enough, you find yourself hesitant. You look down for a moment, at least, and your flashlight's red light illuminates what you can only call a hole. The snow seems to have melted for a short way around it, and plants grow rampant around the border. You shine your light over the edge, and far, far below you see packed earth. A cave, perhaps.

Here it is, a fitting place for you. Alone, where nobody will ever find you, you will come to an end. You, the demon whose presence brings joy to none, least of all yourself, will at last be removed. It is better, this way, and it is what you desire. And yet, you do not step forward, or leap into the earth's embrace. Instead, you look away from the hole and carefully seek out your star once again.

... Fine, then. You can wait for dawn to break, for the sun's light to wash away the stars and end your final time laying eyes on your star. Then, Chara shall fade along with Chara.

It does strike you as odd that in this place, and only this, there is no snow. Still, it allows for you to settle against the lone tree, tucked neatly between two gnarled roots, and rest with your eyes directed perfectly at Canes Venatices. When they vanish, you decide, you shall as well. In the meantime, however, something has stirred inside you, and hesitantly you elect to give it voice.

Your throat burns in the familiar jagged band already from the cold air and your exertions, and this particular language has always been rough on your vocal cords, but you will not be stopped. Mustering your determination, you raise your voice well above its usual soft timbre and sing.

You sing for a long time, despite the slowly rising pain in your throat and the rasp that slowly creeps into the higher notes. Your song, your most precious secret, is safe in this place, and you will let neither any thing nor any one muzzle it. The stars cannot hear your voice, and there are no humans about to hear it. And while you have never once met anyone you would even consider sharing this with... if those two stars could, you are not certain you would mind. Besides. Above all else, you wish to keep singing.

You are unsure when you closed your eyes, but when you open them, the sky shines a bright blue before you. The contrast makes you squint at first, and you are stiff as you slowly sit up. It is late morning, you soon realize. So much for a fitting and prosaic time to make an ending. You hope you can at least make your exeunt graceful.

For a moment, your eyes trail up to the summit of Mount Ebott. This time, however, your star is not there. You no longer feel hesitation, and you swiftly turn around to look at the hole. A few steps, a single leap, and this demon will vanish into the earth, far away from any vile human save yourself.

One dive, and they'll never touch you again. You stride forward.

A moment later, you're staring up at the rapidly receding sky, ankle still smarting and red eyes wide. Did you seriously just _trip_ on the way to jumping to your death? Are you _that_ much of a joke, a non-entity, that you've gone and fucked up your...

Your thoughts are cut off, smothered, crushed under a wave of pain more extreme than you've ever felt before. You don't even scream, because the raw _pain_ of the impact leaves you unable to act even on reflex. A wave of awful nausea rolls across your senses, but you don't even have the energy to retch, let alone vomit.

It wasn't supposed to _be_ like this, damn it. You were supposed to fall gracefully into the earth, head down so that your neck would snap when your shoulders slammed into the dirt. Your mind would've winked out in seconds, sparing you from... _this_. You wanted the suffering to stop, to vanish...

You shake yourself mentally and try to take stock. One arm is crushed immobile beneath you, and it refuses to move. The other stings, and your palm feels like it's on fire, but at least that one moves. Your ankle's twisted, and you've probably broken at least one of your legs too. The real issue is your chest. You don't just feel pain, you feel as if something is physically _lodged_ there, and you can vaguely hear a burbling noise with every hasty, ragged breath you take. That is... almost certainly not healthy. Or likely to be survivable.

You manage to lift your head and stare around. Your vision is hazy, but you can make out the chamber around you: packed, hard earth, a high chamber with the sun shining lazily through the hole you jumped into. There's a tunnel before you, and out of the corner of your eye you notice what seems to be a pair of pillars, ahead and to either side. How odd. Does someone... actually live here?

A sudden impulse strikes you, and despite the usual pain across your throat and the new shard in your chest, you raise your voice for the second time today. At least, you try to. Determination or no, you can only muster a quiet sort of call. It barely echoes, mocking you, and you pause to consider the first word. (Your mind is too hazy, from pain and from confusion, to recall the others for more than a moment.)

"Help." That's definitely what you said. You just called for help. You do not comprehend. Now, of all times, you suddenly want help? Nobody has _ever_ listened or answered when you called before, and you thought you had learned better than that long ago. _They_ certainly never did, even when they weren't the source of your distress. So why? You don't believe that anyone will help, even if they could hear... do you?

You hate humanity. You, as a particularly odious example, do not escape that rancor. You came to escape them, but also to remove yourself. You came up Mount Ebott because they said you would disappear; you climbed the mountain fully intending to die. You came here to kill yourself.

Yet here you are, lethally injured, and yet you're calling out for help. That would seem to indicate that you want someone to save you. You hesitated before, too. What is it you want? What do you feel?

The answer slowly materializes, like a telescope coming into focus. You almost want to laugh, but your lungs refuse to manage it. How can you still, after all these years? How can you, when you know just how awful humans, and especially you, are? Nobody is going to help you. Nothing will change. It is not possible that you think otherwise. You do not _deserve_ for anything to change, in any case.

So... why do you still hope?

Well. It's not as if it matters, in the end. The barest, weakest of laughs escapes your lips as you lay your head down in the hard-packed dirt. There's an odd, muffled sort of thumping, but you barely register that. Your working lung squeezes out the last of its air as you murmur, "But nobody came..."

 

(... But somebody came.)

 


End file.
